How To Protect Your Mouf From Tinder

He has an iron patch of Satan on his back, in the center of his jean jacket, pink Satan. I immediately wonder if he ironed the patches on himself or if his mother did it for him? I tap pink Satan.

“Hola, como estas”

I am a dark skinned, tall (only in Mexico) woman with enormous curly hair. I stand out. As I approached my date, everyone from the spicy mango vendor to the kids playing football took approximately a 3-second break from their regularly scheduled programming to assess what the fuck was going on. Two weirdo’s, one morena one mistos. They will later recall watching what was clearly an uncomfortable first meeting to their friends and family. Exaggerating my hair, my piercings, his alternative goth look with each retelling.

He’s perched on the edge of a statute in the center of Parque Mexico that I once incorrectly told my roommate was designed by Frida Kahlo in honor of her friend. I do not know where I read this and I have not clarified the truth. As he rises, I take him in, all of him.

This is a sculpture that has nothing to do with Frida Kahlo.
One thin layer of chipped black nail polish, 27-inch waist, a fresh red pimple on the edge of his beard, somehow not detracting from his otherwise perfect skin. I realize now his teeth were hiding behind his expressionless face in each Tinder pic. They are missized and appear to have been assembled in his mouth without the manual. He’s handsome when he is perfectly still. His movement ruins the illusion.

We embrace.

We begin walking to nowhere because I hate making plans and I already resent my role of mistress/dominatrix/leader. It’s simply too much work.

The date is normal. Which in and of itself is not normal. Due to multiple u-hauling relationships since before Tinder existed, I missed the whole sext before you meet thing. This is the first time I’ve casually sipped a mezcal and chapuline cocktail while chatting about racism in Mexico, adventure time and the beauty of classic horror films, AFTER learning of the multiple ways my date wanted to cum on me, watch me cum, lick up said cum and other non-standard (to me) pre-date fare.

Adventure time: according to my date, the purple floating one is actually Latina. My sister disputed this.

I’m too overwhelmed to think about hooking up, kissing, any physical contact. I need to figure out the last 4 hours of my life. We get in a shared uber. He wraps his left arm over my shoulder, his hand not quite touching my right breast but hovering close enough for me to wonder what it would feel like, his touch. We are cuddling. His right-hand caresses my face, I can feel his breath to the right of my right eye.

I wonder what the uber driver is thinking.

I am seated completely erect, he is a vine on my body. Rubbing my face with his nose now, his free hand moving between my thighs and my arm. I am outside of myself. Wondering again, how did I get here? All I can do is think, protect your mouf. Protect your mouf. Protect your mouf.

Exhibit A: why I am protecting my mouf

We arrive to my friend’s house (you didn’t think I was having the uber reveal where I sleep, no ma’am) and we unravel our bodies, stepping onto the street. We exchange a hug and a few moments of uneventful silence pass between us. The date is over.

Fuck processing, I need some bud.

Thankfully, uber delivered me to the apartment of potheads. I smoke and the entire night begins to feel like an animated piece on adult swim. He messages me.

“You got me really wet….I have precum all over my undies”

I’m judging myself for still being into this. But alas, I am goddamnit. Hopefully, on date #2 he won’t have cold sores and the mix of terror, disgust and desire I’m feeling for this guy will somehow equal me fucking him with a dildo.

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